Hold The Pickles
by Cyndi
Summary: Sensory issues aren't the only reason Shaun hates pickles.


Trigger warnings: Verbal / emotional / physical abuse, food, food deprivation, vomiting, ableism, swearing, ABA mention and unsanitary situations.

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**Hold the Pickles**

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Cafeteria noise ebbed and flowed. Shaun learned the pattern and adjusted his lunch schedule according to quieter times. He sat at his favorite table near the window and set down the lunch tray containing his hamburger. They gave him a bun without sesame seeds like he asked for, so surely they remembered to hold the pickles, too.

Hunger twisted his stomach. He grasped the burger stiffly in both hands and took a generous bite. Salty-sweet sliminess whiplashed his tongue. The acidic sting struck next. A quadruple whammy of nasty flooding his nerves head to toe.

He spat the unchewed bite out into his hand, wiped it off on a napkin and bit his tongue to stop himself from gagging. A barely concealed frown pulled his brows together. With as much dignity as he could muster, he lowered the hamburger and peeked under the bun.

Pickle slices mocked his sight. The little green horrors were everywhere.

This was the fourth time his request for no pickles went unheeded by the cafeteria staff. Why did they remember buns without sesame seeds and forget to hold the pickles?

Shaun cringed. The vile flavor lingered in his mouth. His appetite evaporated. He folded his hands in his lap, stared out the window at the busy street and rocked slightly back and forth to dispel his disgust.

Claire, who sat at a nearby table, picked up her tray and perched across from him. She moved without a lot of rustling. Her hair was pulled back into the curly bun she shaped it into in the locker room that morning. A few strands had come loose and flickered in the breezes of the air conditioner and people passing by.

"Shaun, what's wrong?"

Shaun couldn't find the energy to look at her caring face, so he fixed his eyes on the traitorous hamburger. Its salty acridness wafted into his nose, adding to his dismay.

"They put pickles in my hamburger again." He pushed his hands together and fought down another gag. "I told them not to. They remembered not to give me a sesame seed bun, but left the pickles. I don't know why they forget. I was polite in my request."

She sighed, but was it in annoyance at him or the kitchen staff?

"You can pick them out, you know. Give them to me, I'll eat them."

He pursed his lips and squeezed his knuckles against each other. "It's not that easy. I can still smell them and taste the juice. It's bad."

Claire's expression softened. Lowering her voice, she asked, "Is it a sensory thing?"

And Shaun's eyes lost focus.

.o

The coffee maker hissed beside the kitchen stove. Old, stained wooden cabinetry in need of repair showed its age in the afternoon sun. Four-year-old Shaun sat at the wooden rectangular table with its fancy filigree patterned legs.

His father, Edward Murphy, narrowed his steely eyes.

"Eat your sandwich, Shaun."

The sandwich in question was ham, mayonnaise and pickles on rye bread. Shaun picked it up. It seemed huge in his small hands. Sourness brushed his sensitive nose as he took the first bite.

Sweet and salty. Flavor whiplash. Then the awful sting of embers on his tongue. Sliminess was the final insult, like licking snot. Nauseating tingling sensations flooded his nerves. His throat revolted. He retched, spitting the unchewed mess onto his plate.

Steve, still a baby, sat in his high chair mouthing a pickle slice without a flinch.

Shaun didn't dare glance at his father's face. Speech wasn't yet in his reach, so he expressed his displeasure by pushing the plate away.

Edward's voice deepened. "Eat it, Shaun, or you'll sleep in the yard again."

Hot energy surged up Shaun's spine. He pressed both hands over his eyes and shrieked.

"Shut up!" Edward blustered at him like thunder. "The starving kids in Africa aren't as picky as you!"

A blow to the cheek almost knocked Shaun off the chair. He picked up the sandwich and choked down every vile morsel because obeying was the only way to stop his father from yelling.

His tongue burned each time he swallowed. Cramps churned his stomach. Saliva pooled in his mouth. He bent sideways and gurgled as everything came back up sourer than it went down.

"You stupid brat!" Edward's chair shrieked on the checkered tile floor and Shaun's world went white.

Acidic sourness splashed warmth on his left cheek. Edward had thrown him face-down into his own puke.

Shaun didn't know what he did wrong. He stayed where he was, watching Edward's reflection move across his emesis puddle.

Edward placed the jar of pickles on the top shelf of the refrigerator, slammed it shut and crossed the kitchen to pick up Steve.

The second he left Shaun's sight, Shaun pushed himself up, stepped gingerly over his mess and grabbed the pickle jar from the fridge. Its cold smoothness seeped into his palms. He carried the heavy jar out the back door and hurled its disgustingness over the north fence. It splashed into the neighbors' pool with a satisfying finality.

No more pickles!

Shaun didn't bother containing the bubbling elation behind his breastbone. He giggled, bounced and flapped his hands.

"Shaun!" Edward burst out, "What the hell are you doing?"

Shaun's elation vanished. His heart raced. He spun around and bolted out the back gate with his dad's footsteps hot on his heels. The street wasn't busy when the sun was golden bright amid the eucalyptus coolness, so he sprinted across without looking. He laughed loudly, not out of joy or amusement, but from the adrenaline coursing through his veins like rocket fuel.

Edward's large hand closed around his upper arm. His touch was open flames.

Shaun screamed at the top of his lungs. Neighbors peeked their heads out to stare while Edward folded him under his arm like a football and hauled him back into the house.

The heavy front door slammed, rattling the windows. Shaun flinched. He tried to yank it open again. A hand struck his jaw and everything went blank.

He slept in the yard that night for causing trouble. Autumn was in full swing. Wearing a wet PullUp diaper in the chilly air gave him goosebumps, so he wrapped himself in the dirty outdoor tablecloth and curled up on the creaky plastic lawn chair. Sleeping in the cold with a wet PullUp wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as eating a pickle.

But Edward wasn't finished yet.

Shaun woke up to the front door being thrown open. Hunger turned his stomach over. Breakfast meant a bowl of Cheerios.

His mother changed his PullUp for him and dressed him in clean clothes. A striped red shirt and gray sweatpants. He rushed eagerly into the kitchen and stopped short.

A lone pickle slice glared at him from its yellow saucer.

"You'll get your Cheerios when you eat that. You won't get anything if you throw up or don't eat it," Edward said smugly. "That'll teach you not to waste food."

It wasn't fair. Even at four years old, Shaun recognized the unfairness of it. He choked down the horrid, slimy pickle slice, gagged and chased it away with a bowl of Cheerios.

And every day after, he had to eat a pickle to earn his meals. Hard pickles, soft pickles, sweet pickles, salty pickles and spicy pickles, he ate and hated them all.

.o

Nine years later, thirteen-year-old Shaun rebelled.

They lived in a different house now. The kitchen table was the same, but the floor had a blue, white and cream pinwheel tile pattern and dark cherry wood cabinetry.

Shaun tugged at the waistline of his brown corduroy pants. They were tight around his middle and stopped an inch above his ankles because he nearly outgrew them.

Edward set a roast beef sandwich in the center of the kitchen table and placed a matching saucer with a pickle in front of Shaun.

"Earn your lunch."

Shaun clasped his hands together and frowned at the offensive food. He lifted his head, fixed his dad in a cold stare and screwed all his courage into his voice.

"No."

"No?" Edward raised a brow.

"It feels bad in my mouth. I hate the taste. Nobody else has to eat a pickle before they can have their food. You're not treating me fair."

"I'm not treating you fair?" Edward's voice rose in pitch.

He leaned into Shaun's personal space, his upper lip tight against his top teeth. "I'll tell you what isn't fair, kid. Flushing thousands of dollars down the toilet on therapy that was supposed to make you normal. Or how about all those diapers you wore until you were eight? All those phone calls to school, all the nights you kept me and your mother up and all the trouble we went through to keep you from getting killed."

His words rose like an ice pick against Shaun's eardrums. "You should be thanking me for not drowning you in the bathtub!"

Shaun clapped both hands over his ears and held them, trying to shut out the crackling gibberish jabbing into his skull.

His father's face reddened as he pointed to the floor and yelled, "You do what I say while you live under my roof, you ungrateful little shit!"

Outside, the school bus hummed its departure. Steve trudged into the front door in time to catch the tail end of the rant. He threw his backpack down and bolted into the kitchen.

"Dad!"

"Stay out of this, Steve!"

"You're hurting his ears!"

"Dammit, I said stay out of this!"

"Shaun!"

Edward's footsteps thudded to the kitchen doorway. Steve tried to dodge away, but Edward was bigger and stronger.

"You big asshole! Let me go!" Steve snarled.

The sharp slap of skin hitting skin silenced Steve's protests. Edward returned, rubbing his fist.

Shaun stared up at him, his heart throbbing like a machine gun. He gulped with a dry mouth.

"You're gonna die if you get off that chair without eating that pickle," Edward sneered, "You got that?"

Coldness spread through Shaun's chest because he didn't want to die. He looked away, his gaze refocusing on the offensive green pickle.

And for the next several hours, he sat almost motionless in silent protest.

Daylight slowly faded. Everybody ate a huge pork chop dinner around Shaun. Steve was forbidden from slipping him bites of his food. His mother, Kate, ceased protesting after a sharp word.

Dusk turned to night. Edward turned on and later shut off the lights. The TV fell silent.

Shaun remained at the table. He thought of all the cities he could remember in alphabetical order, then moved on to states, countries and continents.

Dull heaviness in his pelvis alerted him to his full bladder. Hunger, thirst and static-like visual snow brought on by sleepiness all vied for his attention, so he refused to acknowledge any of them. He twisted his hands together and rocked slightly back and forth, ignoring his body in favor of counting the stars visible through the kitchen window.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimed the hour. Midnight, according to the green digital numbers on the microwave.

Shaun clutched himself, trying to hold back the flood, but his bladder had reached capacity. He dribbled, squeezed himself tighter and swallowed past the lump in his throat. A final, painful spasm wracked his body. The fabric bunched between his hands turned wet and warm. Startled, he let go of his groin. He was peeing full blast in his pants. Thirteen year old boys didn't pee their pants!

He clenched his fists, his face burning even though nobody else witnessed his utter humiliation. The relief of emptying his bladder superseded the uncomfortable warmth pooling in his lap and running down his legs onto the floor. He relaxed as if using a toilet and stared hatefully at the pickle he refused to eat. His thick corduroy pants soaked his urine up everywhere except the outside edges of his legs.

He peed for what seemed like ages. Tiny rivulets trickled unpleasantly off his ankles. A puddle as wide as the chair formed under his bare feet. His relief and embarrassment grew with it.

Shaun whimpered under his breath when the flow finally stopped. His sopping attire turned cool and itchy against his skin as time wore on.

Two hours later, he had to do it again. He stared at the clock with tears stinging his eyes. This wasn't fair. Dads who loved their children didn't treat them this way.

Pickles were physical manifestations of how much his dad hated him. Realization bashed Shaun's heart. Tears flowed anew, silent and secret in the dark. That time, he mourned.

Another forty five minutes ticked by.

Shaun couldn't stand the itchy, cold clothing on his skin any longer. He wriggled free of his shirt, pants and underwear without getting off the chair and placed them over the pee puddle to soak it up.

Musty urine was indistinguishable from the pickle stench.

Hours continued to pass. Shaun counted stars until the sky was too pale to see them.

Edward staggered sleepily into the kitchen. Dawn's pink light eased between the vertical blinds on the two living room windows.

"What the hell?" He grunted.

Naked, wet and vulnerable, Shaun hunched smaller in the chair. The urine puddle and soaked clothing at his feet advertised his shame. He watched his father's eyes shift downward to take in the mess.

"Oh, my God, did you sit there all night pissing yourself? You're really that stupid?"

"You said I'm going to die if I leave the table without eating the pickle." Shaun replied meekly. "I don't want to eat it, but I don't want to die."

"I didn't mean it literally, you idiot! Ugh. Get up. Now."

"But-"

"Now!"

Edward opened the door into the garage, which stood adjacent to the kitchen entryway.

Shaun's stomach turned to lead and his blood froze. Garage beatings were always the worst because nobody else saw them happen. He kept hugging himself as he rose off the chair, still naked as the day he was born, and tiptoed past his dad. The yawning garage door was an Arctic void in the otherwise warm spring morning.

Edward followed him in and quietly pushed the door shut. He flipped a switch, lighting the diamond white fluorescent light on the ceiling.

The buzz sandpapered Shaun's ear canals. He winced and stepped backwards. His father's looming outline was a nightmare against the yellowing wall behind him.

"You better not make a noise, boy. Not a peep."

Shaun closed his eyes and resigned himself to the pain.

That morning, a Saturday, his father broke his collarbone and locked him naked in the garage. He paced around, hungry, dry-mouthed and shivering, his shoulder throbbing relentlessly. Even that didn't compare to the sandpaper torture of the buzzing overhead light.

The car in the driveway rattled to life and pulled away.

A short time later, the door to the house cracked open. Fresh light spilled in. Shaun clutched at the old afghan he found in a dusty box. It was a crocheted red and gold monstrosity that kept him surprisingly warm.

"Dad isn't home right now," Steve whispered, jiggling something in a plastic bag. "Don't tell him I gave this to you."

Shaun held his swollen shoulder and choked on his tears. "He hurt me bad, Steve."

"I know," Steve said, his face darkening. "I can't fix that, sorry, but you need to eat and drink something."

Sniffling, Shaun accepted the secret gift.

A car engine rattled outside the garage. Steve's eyes widened. "Dad's home. Remember, don't tell him I gave the sandwich and drink to you."

He ruffled Shaun's hair, ran out into the kitchen and pulled the door shut behind him.

Shaun shuffled to the darkest corner of the garage and opened the plastic bag. A sandwich and a silver Capri Sun drink pouch peeped out at him.

His nose was blocked from crying, so he took a leap of faith and bit into the sandwich.

Tuna, slathered in mayonnaise. The Capri Sun was little more than sweetened water flavored vaguely like cherries. He devoured the sandwich, slurped the fruit punch and hid the contraband under a crate of Christmas lights.

.o

Shaun refocused on the colorful, yet traitorous burger sitting on its white paper plate in the middle of his gray plastic tray. He looked up at last, letting his gaze glide along the edge of Claire's face.

"Yes. It's a sensory thing. Pickles feel disgusting in my mouth." His voice rang hollow in his own ears. "I don't like them."

"Well," Claire glanced at her plain, unremarkable sandwich and half-smiled. "I got tuna because they ran out of ham, and I'm not much of a tuna fan."

"Tuna is okay," said Shaun. "I like it."

"Great! So how about we trade?" She arched a slender brow. "I know it's off your routine, but it's better than being hungry."

Shaun rubbed his palms together to contain his overflowing gratitude. He dipped his head and awkwardly slid their lunch trays past each other.

Claire exchanged glances with him. They picked up their new lunches simultaneously and took a bite.

Shaun relaxed his shoulders while he chewed. Routine or not, tuna was a million times better than pickles.


End file.
